


Ten drabbles, ten commandments

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-13
Updated: 2004-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles featuring Aziraphale and Crowley mostly breaking the ten commandments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten drabbles, ten commandments

 

Aziraphale stands in the bookshop, a bestseller weighing down his hand pleasantly. It feels good in his hand, the cardboard smooth under his fingertips. He lifts the open book to his face and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of ink and paper, imagining he can see the author working hard. He moves on, intoxicated, running his fingers over the masses of books. He savours the touch of so much human endeavour and finally selects a book by a children's author, its cover bright and enticing.

By the time he leaves the shop he will have reverently touched every book there.  


*

 

Crowley likes to look at his car for hours on end, either to make sure no dents or scratches have dared to appear since last he checked, or simply for enjoyment. It is beautiful and sleek and he loves it. He knows it's just a machine, but he also knows it loves him back.

It's something he could never explain to Aziraphale. He loves his car more than he can admit even to himself. More than that, he trusts it completely.

He can't imagine anything he'd ever give it up for. He plans on driving it at the Last Battle.  


*

 

The world lies in smoking ruins, Armageddon by human design. Crowley stalks the cities melted to glass. He looks at the shadows of incinerated humans with unblinking eyes. He pictures Aziraphale going up in surprised smoke with his precious books. Crowley was travelling when it happened. He ripped a hole in the fuselage and threw himself upward as his plane fell from the sky. Now he is the only living creature.

He curses a name he has not said in millennia. The clouds gather overhead, the threat massive and unavoidable.

He plans on living long enough to ask some questions.  


*

 

"You can't come for a drink?" Crowley said, and Aziraphale was glad he wasn't actually facing the demon.

"It's the Sabbath," he said, twisting the phone cord around a finger.

"Aziraphale. Last month you said _Saturday_ was the Sabbath, the month before --"

"I like to be fair. Oh, stop hissing, I can't go to a pub and that's that."

"Well, can we drink in your place, then?" Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale beamed. "I don't see anything wrong with that. You'll have to buy, though, I can't - it's the Sabbath. Get something nice."

Crowley hung up in a particularly rude way.  


*

 

It has been a long time since Aziraphale thought about God. When he thinks of Heaven, mindless rules and a hierarchy of supercilious bureaucrats comes to mind, all of them mere obstacles to circumvent so he can continue his comfortable existence on Earth. Could it have been like that? he wonders, fearing Crowley's sarcasm has overwritten his true memories.

Sometimes he thinks he remembers peace and intense, loving focus on the still, calm Centre. He knew and was known. At those times he calls Crowley and gets very drunk.

He wishes he could remember why he stopped thinking about God.  


*

 

"St Michel, St Catherine, St Margaret," the girl whispered as they tied her to the stake. The wood was dry and seasoned. There would be no kindly suffocating smoke. "Jesu, Maria," she said, kissing the little cross the soldier had made for her, "St Michel."

"Not quite," the other angel said, the one whose name she had never known. "Poor girl."

The torch was thrown, the crowd started screaming and the flames rose up like wings. The angel touched her very gently, tears running down his face. She wished she could comfort him, and smiled as he stopped her heart.  


*

 

Marriage was just a piece of paper, and they didn't need it. Even if the law changed, they wouldn't bother. Who wanted to look so straight? What was important was what they felt, the private promises they'd made.

He explained it all very carefully to the young man stroking his hand, watching the sly smile creep over the smooth-skinned face. He said again he wasn't interested and listened to the quiet laughter.

"Like it or not, you're married," the young guy said, adjusting the sunglasses and shrugging him off as hopeless.

The sudden urge to prove him wrong felt good.  


*

 

"Just sign here," Crowley said, unrolling the parchment from the bottom up. He offered his pen, obligingly.

"And I get _everything?_ " his customer asked, still sceptical.

"Wealth, fame, girl of your dreams. Sign."

"Crowley, Crowley! Your car -- young hoodlums --," Aziraphale gasped, running in. Crowley was out and sprinting down the street before the human saw him move. The car was fine, nothing wrong at all. Crowley scowled and ran back to see Aziraphale shove the customer into a taxi and flee the scene.

Crowley kicked at a stone in disgust. Bloody angels. Take anything that wasn't nailed down, they would.  


*

 

" . . . having discovered the demon's plan, I ensured through admonishing visions . . ."

". . . the angel, being forced to flee the field in shameful defeat . . ."

". . . unfortunately the Enemy in his wiles has been successful in . . ."

" . . . alas, lord, that the Enemy, being devious, has succeeded in . . ."

" . . . slavish devotion to his masters . . ."

"Hey! That's in my report too."

"Oh. Well, they're not likely to check, are they?"

"Suppose not. Am I Terrible in my Evil in yours?"

"Oh, absolutely horrible. Am I an insufferable goody-goody in yours?"

"Yeah, but don't read it, you'll make yourself sick."

"Next time, we should write each other's."

"It's a date."  


*

 

"I want that," Crowley said, ignoring Aziraphale's sigh.

"You have a TV already. And a computer and microwave and one of those monstrous American fridges and you got new carpets last week. Why do you always want more stuff?"

"Because," Crowley started, and found himself distracted by a swan overhead, the sound of powerful wings against the air familiar and painful. He wanted to fly, to hear other wings all around. He wanted things to be different. _Wanting_ was a hole six thousand years deep. "Just because," he muttered and pointed eagerly to the most expensive stereo.

"I want that."  



End file.
